Generation Kill - The (Reluctant) Courtship of Sgt. Brad Colbert (Brad/Nate, R)
Today is kind of disastrous. I wrote this for me. And for L. Happy Birthday (again), bb.
Generation Kill
Brad/Nate
Rated R
The (Reluctant) Courtship of Sgt. Brad Colbert
The LT's standing in the entranceway of the platoon tent at Mathilda. His soft cover is clutched in his hand, long fingers tangled in rough cotton, eyes scanning for someone or something and that's when Brad has his revelation.
He knows how this is going to end already.
Brad shifts his weight, not closing in on himself, just… moving. Moving back. He's sprawled out in his rack, laptop on his stomach, the webpage for FedEx refreshing for a sixteenth time today. Brad is nothing if not persistent.
Three feet away Person's annoying Walt about the letter he just got that smells like a fifteen year old-hooker went crazy at the perfume counter at Wal-Mart. Rudy's by Pappy's rack, prepping for his run and making previously heterosexual men question their sexuality.
And the LT… the LT is looking for him.
Brad waits, watches, studies the LT's lightly sunburned skin and tiny ears. Looks at the curve of his jaw and when the LT spots him he sits up a bit straighter. He's already looking for a box to set the laptop on when the LT kneels down at his feet. "Brad, I -"
"You want to look at the maps of the AO, sir," Brad finishes before the LT has a chance. The LT ducks his head a little, gives Brad this small smile that makes something tiny rumble in Brad's brain. In his chest. And then he shakes it off and rights an empty box, sets Doris on top.
Brad doesn't know when he named the laptop Doris. Just that he did. Doris was the name of his grandmother. She taught him all the Yiddish he knows. She also taught him all the curse words he knows. Well, most of them. Person can be very knowledgeable when he wants to be.
Brad shifts in his rack. Makes a little bit more space between himself and the LT and then he toggles two keys together and turns Doris around. "Mesopotamia," he says, proudly showing the LT the screen.
The LT smiles. Shakes his head. "I meant a map from this millennium, Brad."
Brad clasps his hand to his chest mock dramatically. "Well, sir, if you're not specific, I can't read your mind."
"Really? You seem to have done a good job up to this point."
Brad blinks. The LT just gives him an innocent look.
Asshole.
"You don't want to read his mind," Person calls over, clearly missing part of the exchange. "All those love letters to his dick and his motorcycle would scar you irreparably, sir! Next you'd be talking about going back to Israel and finding the nearest computer shop."
"Shut up, Ray," Brad says mildly, the reply as automatic as breathing as he turns the screen and toggles a few windows again. "Better, sir?" he says, gripping the computer and turning it back.
"Yeah," the LT says, looking nowhere near the laptop screen. "Better."
Brad can feel something flare hot in his chest. He ignores it.
"Sir, how exactly did you procure that LSA?"
The LT looks up from the maps he's studying on the hood of his Victor.
"Excuse me, Brad?"
"The LSA for the Mark 19," Brad repeats. "Where did you get it?"
The LT's mouth quirks at one side. "Didn't anybody ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?"
Brad shifts his weight. "That's why I don't ride horses, sir."
"Point made, Brad."
"Sir."
The LT raises an eyebrow. "Brad, I can assure you that my chastity was not impugned, my good name not sullied - that I didn’t do anything for that LSA that would cause you to think less of me."
Brad leans in a little. "Sir, whomever told you I was thinking about you is a dirty liar."
The LT's smile has too many teeth. "Oh, then I guess that was just wishful thinking."
Brad looks around just to make sure Lilley's not taping him, because the LT is clearly fucking with him.
The invasion is total bullshit.
It is such bullshit that if it were any other invading force on Earth, Brad would just laugh. If he were playing RISK with one of his cousins he would just raise an eyebrow and ask if they wanted to forfeit now or carry on with this three-legged dog fuck pretense of authority.
In what fucked up timeline do you spend more time in camp than you do fighting the enemy? In what war do you spend all your time commuting to the fucking action? Air field raid aside, in what world do warriors shoot children because they’re that desperate to get a round off?
This is an affront to everything Brad learned in military school. In SERE. In BRC.
Long after Rudy moves out from underneath his Victor, Brad's still there. Still chiseling away at tar and dreck and history. At the thought that this… this isn't what his life is supposed to be like.
"If you're sabotaging your Victor, don't tell me about it," the LT's voice is soft, personable. And right fucking next to Brad. Jesus fuck, why didn't Brad notice his approach? Goddamn Recon Marines.
"Sir, my basic familiarity with 'don't ask, don't tell' doesn't permit me to acknowledge that question," Brad says.
The sand shifts around Brad. The LT is on the move. Brad pauses his chiseling when the LT's elbow bumps his arm.
"Sir, is there some reason you're invading hostile terrain without protection?" Brad says, before going back to banging at a particularly vicious bit of tar on one of the transmission lines.
"I like to live dangerously," is the reply.
"Well, sir, then I'm pretty sure you're in the right place."
Brad only stops moving when the LT's hand stills his motions.
"Brad."
Brad swallows and studies the underside of the Humvee - or he tries to, but his eyes can't look away from the long, filthy fingers curling lightly over his wrist. "Sir."
Brad can feel the LT's eyes on the side of the face. The sweeping look that's like a breath on his skin. Gentle in ways a shamal or Noelle's fingers could never be. "It's not your fault."
The grains of sand are digging into Brad's neck, and when he turns he can feel them falling away from his skin, sliding under his collar. Grating in places they don't belong.
He doesn't think they're talking about Trombley. Or not just about Trombley.
The LT is the LT except for when he's Nate. He's not Nate often. Actually, Brad's never called the LT 'Nate' at all. It's always 'sir.'
Yes, sir.
No, sir.
Whatever you say, sir.
Except then they go to Iraq. And what was before isn't the same as what is now. The LT is Nate and Brad is Brad. And Brad forgets that before he was Nate he was the LT. Forgets that he is the LT and not just Nate. Not just another grunt. Not just another cog in the wheel of the motherfucking Strategic Plan.
The first time the LT walks away from him, after that fucking weakass, retarded moto bullshit speech by Encino Man, Brad has to stop and remind himself of this.
And then it just goes downhill from there.
Something goes wrong after the danger close fiasco. After the roadblock at Al Hayy. Brad doesn't know what he did. Or what he didn't do. Just that the LT started turning away from him. The tone in his voice, the tenor of their relationship.
It's like someone shut a door that Brad didn't even know was open.
They're all on watch after the Al Muwaffaqiyah disaster. Everyone is jittery. Tense. The adrenaline rushes are coming down and in some way it's worse than right after their retreat. They're alive, but they're sitting ducks.
"This is the most fucked up, retard, duck fucking, excuse for a retreat I've ever had the misfortune to be a part of," Ray laments. "At least when we did this shit at school we got cookies and juice afterwards."
"At least if we were fucking ducks we'd be doing something," Reporter says helpfully.
"You fuck ducks?!" Ray and Trombley say in tandem. Their mutual disgust and glee at finding a weak point perfectly apparent.
Brad shakes his head. He opens the door and climbs out of the Humvee. "Where the fuck are you going?" Ray calls. "You can't run home to Mommy now, Brad."
"Actually, I was going home to fuck your mom," Brad tosses over his shoulder. "You want to come? Groups of three or more get a discount rate."
There's a moment of silence. "I'm going to remember this affront to my parentage later!" Ray hollers after him.
Brad cradles his M4 protectively, walking toward the back of the formation and honing in on the Command vehicle by instinct. The LT is talking to Gunny, but he glances up briefly when Brad approaches. Brad doesn't listen in on the conversation between them, just bides his time until Wynn looks over at him and nods before walking off.
The LT looks tired. There are circles under his eyes and dirt smeared all over his face. He left his Victor and nearly got killed. Brad is not okay with this. Brad cradles his weapon, careful to point the muzzle away from his commanding officer.
"Sir," Brad begins, not sure where this sentence is going.
The LT sighs. He's exhausted. It's etched into every line on his face, the youthfulness of his features muted by the life they've chosen. "Yes, Brad?"
"Sir, you can't do that."
The LT blinks. His eyes are just a white contrast to the smears on his face in the dark night. "Excuse me?" His words are polite, but his tone -- there's a wariness bordering on something prickly.
Brad looks down between them. The distance seems smaller than it really is. "Sir, you can't get out of your Humvee during a fucking ambush and run around like this is the end zone at a Dartmouth football game. You can't almost get yourself killed," he says firmly. "I can't allow that."
The LT narrows his eyes. "Allow that, Sergeant?"
Brad shakes his head. "No, Nate." Brad never quite understood all the power of a name until now.
There's a sharp inhale followed by a rough exhalation. "Brad." There's not a word to describe the emotion in Nate's voice and a long fissure appears somewhere deep in Brad's chest.
This is what Brad saw at Mathilda. That it would be so easy for him to fall for Nate Fick. That Nate was already on his way along that fucked up road of pot holes and IEDs and broken hearts and somebody was going to have to get them out of this mess.
That somebody was going to have to make the decision not to take them down this road. This road ends up like the ambush they were just in. Brad won't do that again. He's making that choice now.
"No, Nate," Brad repeats again, his voice rougher. More hoarse. There's a physical ache radiating from every part of his body.
And then he turns around and walks away.
Nate is full of shit. The team leader meeting for the push to Al Kut is just proof that Brad made the right choice, because Brad would never fall for some dickless, inbred choir boy who spouted moto bullshit about burning dogs. So it doesn't even matter that Brad's so disgusted he actually gives Nate lip. It really doesn't. Except if he really thinks Nate's so full of shit, why even bother to be angry with him in the first fucking place? God, he hates it when he sounds like his mom in his head.
They're in a POG camp on 25% watch, the battle is over, the war is won, the kids are asleep and Brad shouldn't be surprised when Nate shows up. He knows this. Except he is. He thought this was over. He thought they were over this. He thought he was over this.
And then Nate sidles up to Brad's half-open passenger door and clears his throat. Every nerve in Brad's body tenses and he looks up at the ceiling before turning his head. "LT."
"Sergeant."
There's a too-long pause with Nate standing at the door and Brad looking somewhere near his left ear. Brad has to make eye contact eventually; when he does it's like a punch in the throat. Nate's sucking on his lower lip, eyes intent, watching. Waiting. Brad can feel his own eyes widening. He swallows. He doesn't want to go through this again - but he's not sure he has much choice.
Nate inclines his head, and Brad automatically climbs out of the Humvee and follows him to the front of the Victor. Nate leans back against the grille and gives Brad a smile that makes Brad sway a little on his feet. Brad puts his hand down on the hood to steady himself and licks his lips.
Nate's eyes automatically go downward and Brad sighs softly to himself. "Sir."
"Yes?" Nate coaxes.
Brad snorts softly to himself. "I can't believe we're in a fucking POG camp."
Nate's laugh is low and warm and all Brad wants is to hear it again.
The resulting conversation about warriors and latrines has absolutely nothing to do with either one at all.
The cigarette factory is a gift from somebody. Brad doesn't believe in God, so he'll just have to thank Saddam's hopefully dead-and-dismembered-by-now sons. Eight floors. 32 offices per floor. It takes Brad thirty-seven minutes to find Nate, because far be it from Nate to be obvious and choose a fucking office. Instead, he's in what looks like a computer room on the fifth floor. No windows, one door only slightly ajar.
It's cooler inside here than any other place Brad's checked, and there's Nate, sprawled out against one wall, surrounded by binders and a few yellowing envelopes.
Brad looks at the crown of his head, the very tips of his ears and the shorn hair and the notebook paper held gently between his fingers.
"Reading letters from Suzie Rottencrotch back home?" he says a little harshly. The thought streaking through his mind has honestly never occurred to him before. Clearly it should have.
"Don’t call my sister names," Nate says mildly without lifting his head.
Brad exhales and steps inside. The door clicks closed behind him. "Sorry, sir."
Nate folds up the letter and sets it aside before looking up. "Did you check to make sure you didn't just lock us in here, Sergeant?"
Brad blinks. Nate gazes back. "You're fucking with me."
Nate's smile is enormous. "And for a second you bought it."
"Being misled by Command is my favorite hobby." Brad says drolly as he sets his weapon alongside Nate's before taking the steps necessary to enter Nate's space. He pauses long enough to straddle Nate's legs and then sit down on his thighs, trapping Nate against the wall.
There's a long moment where Brad just looks at Nate, studies the wide, lush mouth and the dark circles. Tries to figure out how he found a way into Brad's heart where everybody else just fucking failed.
The whites of Nate's eyes are bright. "You're heavy," he says conversationally as he tugs Brad closer, his fingers splaying over Brad's back.
"Is that a fat joke?" Brad says, accepting a very soft brush of Nate's mouth against his own. "I think I'm offended."
"Just observing the terrain," Nate says, kissing Brad slowly, his tongue sliding between Brad's lips effortlessly. Brad sucks on it, uses his teeth. When he pulls away, Nate's mouth is slick, wet. "Just thinking about all the ways I'm going to defile you when we get stateside."
Brad makes a 'hmm'ing noise. "I'd be interested in hearing about that," he says while conducting his detailed study of Nate's features. He runs the tips of his fingers over Nate's forehead, jaw, the bridge of his noise, nuzzles Nate's temple, feeling it when Nate's fingers dig into his hips.
"I know you would," Nate says, nipping at Brad's bottom lip. "You want all the details of me spreading you out on my bed, kissing you here, and here, and here and here." Nate punctuates each 'here' with a stroke of his fingers over a particular body part. The small of Brad's back. The inside of his elbow. The side of his neck.
"I know you want me to tell you about how I'm going to lick you open, fuck you with my fingers so slowly that you're in agony. How I'm going to fuck your perfect hole until it's swollen and puffy and then I'm going to lick you open again and you're going to come for me again and again without even touching yourself."
Brad shifts on Nate's lap, leisurely rubbing his cock against Nate's stomach through four layers of clothes. "Sounds like a good plan, sir." A beat. "Somewhere down the line."
Nate pulls back, banging his head on the wall. Brad shakes his head, cups Nate's skull with his fingers to keep future injuries at bay. "Somewhere down the line?" Nate repeats incredulously.
"You haven't even bought me a drink yet. I'm not that cheap, sir."
Nate laughs low. "No, you're definitely not cheap, Brad. But you're worth the effort."
"You think so?" Brad's voice is so thin that he barely hears himself speak.
"Yes," Nate says bluntly.
Brad's eyes are drawn down by Nate's fingers on his chin. "Yes," Nate repeats again. "You're worth it."
Brad shivers. When Nate says it… he almost thinks it's true. Maybe it is.
"But we're not fucking in here," Nate says, ghosting his thumb over Brad's right cheekbone. "Don't get your hopes up."
Brad sighs dramatically. "Well, at least this time I have advance notice of being screwed by Command."
"Brad, when I fuck you, you're going to beg for it."
"Is that a fact, sir?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?" Brad persists. "I wouldn’t want your personal feelings to get in the way of your performance."
Nate grins. "I think it's too late for that, don't you?"
Brad nods. "I am assured of this."
-end-
Author's Note: It occurred to me that an overwhelming amount of my stories were about Brad pursuing Nate. I wanted to see it on the other foot for a change. It almost made me get in an accident this morning thinking about it.
Yet, another present for L. Ilu romanticalgirl. It's terrible this birthday thing, isn't it?
Beta by the always fabulous alethialia
Generation Kill
Brad/Nate
Rated R
The (Reluctant) Courtship of Sgt. Brad Colbert
The LT's standing in the entranceway of the platoon tent at Mathilda. His soft cover is clutched in his hand, long fingers tangled in rough cotton, eyes scanning for someone or something and that's when Brad has his revelation.
He knows how this is going to end already.
Brad shifts his weight, not closing in on himself, just… moving. Moving back. He's sprawled out in his rack, laptop on his stomach, the webpage for FedEx refreshing for a sixteenth time today. Brad is nothing if not persistent.
Three feet away Person's annoying Walt about the letter he just got that smells like a fifteen year old-hooker went crazy at the perfume counter at Wal-Mart. Rudy's by Pappy's rack, prepping for his run and making previously heterosexual men question their sexuality.
And the LT… the LT is looking for him.
Brad waits, watches, studies the LT's lightly sunburned skin and tiny ears. Looks at the curve of his jaw and when the LT spots him he sits up a bit straighter. He's already looking for a box to set the laptop on when the LT kneels down at his feet. "Brad, I -"
"You want to look at the maps of the AO, sir," Brad finishes before the LT has a chance. The LT ducks his head a little, gives Brad this small smile that makes something tiny rumble in Brad's brain. In his chest. And then he shakes it off and rights an empty box, sets Doris on top.
Brad doesn't know when he named the laptop Doris. Just that he did. Doris was the name of his grandmother. She taught him all the Yiddish he knows. She also taught him all the curse words he knows. Well, most of them. Person can be very knowledgeable when he wants to be.
Brad shifts in his rack. Makes a little bit more space between himself and the LT and then he toggles two keys together and turns Doris around. "Mesopotamia," he says, proudly showing the LT the screen.
The LT smiles. Shakes his head. "I meant a map from this millennium, Brad."
Brad clasps his hand to his chest mock dramatically. "Well, sir, if you're not specific, I can't read your mind."
"Really? You seem to have done a good job up to this point."
Brad blinks. The LT just gives him an innocent look.
Asshole.
"You don't want to read his mind," Person calls over, clearly missing part of the exchange. "All those love letters to his dick and his motorcycle would scar you irreparably, sir! Next you'd be talking about going back to Israel and finding the nearest computer shop."
"Shut up, Ray," Brad says mildly, the reply as automatic as breathing as he turns the screen and toggles a few windows again. "Better, sir?" he says, gripping the computer and turning it back.
"Yeah," the LT says, looking nowhere near the laptop screen. "Better."
Brad can feel something flare hot in his chest. He ignores it.
"Sir, how exactly did you procure that LSA?"
The LT looks up from the maps he's studying on the hood of his Victor.
"Excuse me, Brad?"
"The LSA for the Mark 19," Brad repeats. "Where did you get it?"
The LT's mouth quirks at one side. "Didn't anybody ever tell you not to look a gift horse in the mouth?"
Brad shifts his weight. "That's why I don't ride horses, sir."
"Point made, Brad."
"Sir."
The LT raises an eyebrow. "Brad, I can assure you that my chastity was not impugned, my good name not sullied - that I didn’t do anything for that LSA that would cause you to think less of me."
Brad leans in a little. "Sir, whomever told you I was thinking about you is a dirty liar."
The LT's smile has too many teeth. "Oh, then I guess that was just wishful thinking."
Brad looks around just to make sure Lilley's not taping him, because the LT is clearly fucking with him.
The invasion is total bullshit.
It is such bullshit that if it were any other invading force on Earth, Brad would just laugh. If he were playing RISK with one of his cousins he would just raise an eyebrow and ask if they wanted to forfeit now or carry on with this three-legged dog fuck pretense of authority.
In what fucked up timeline do you spend more time in camp than you do fighting the enemy? In what war do you spend all your time commuting to the fucking action? Air field raid aside, in what world do warriors shoot children because they’re that desperate to get a round off?
This is an affront to everything Brad learned in military school. In SERE. In BRC.
Long after Rudy moves out from underneath his Victor, Brad's still there. Still chiseling away at tar and dreck and history. At the thought that this… this isn't what his life is supposed to be like.
"If you're sabotaging your Victor, don't tell me about it," the LT's voice is soft, personable. And right fucking next to Brad. Jesus fuck, why didn't Brad notice his approach? Goddamn Recon Marines.
"Sir, my basic familiarity with 'don't ask, don't tell' doesn't permit me to acknowledge that question," Brad says.
The sand shifts around Brad. The LT is on the move. Brad pauses his chiseling when the LT's elbow bumps his arm.
"Sir, is there some reason you're invading hostile terrain without protection?" Brad says, before going back to banging at a particularly vicious bit of tar on one of the transmission lines.
"I like to live dangerously," is the reply.
"Well, sir, then I'm pretty sure you're in the right place."
Brad only stops moving when the LT's hand stills his motions.
"Brad."
Brad swallows and studies the underside of the Humvee - or he tries to, but his eyes can't look away from the long, filthy fingers curling lightly over his wrist. "Sir."
Brad can feel the LT's eyes on the side of the face. The sweeping look that's like a breath on his skin. Gentle in ways a shamal or Noelle's fingers could never be. "It's not your fault."
The grains of sand are digging into Brad's neck, and when he turns he can feel them falling away from his skin, sliding under his collar. Grating in places they don't belong.
He doesn't think they're talking about Trombley. Or not just about Trombley.
The LT is the LT except for when he's Nate. He's not Nate often. Actually, Brad's never called the LT 'Nate' at all. It's always 'sir.'
Yes, sir.
No, sir.
Whatever you say, sir.
Except then they go to Iraq. And what was before isn't the same as what is now. The LT is Nate and Brad is Brad. And Brad forgets that before he was Nate he was the LT. Forgets that he is the LT and not just Nate. Not just another grunt. Not just another cog in the wheel of the motherfucking Strategic Plan.
The first time the LT walks away from him, after that fucking weakass, retarded moto bullshit speech by Encino Man, Brad has to stop and remind himself of this.
And then it just goes downhill from there.
Something goes wrong after the danger close fiasco. After the roadblock at Al Hayy. Brad doesn't know what he did. Or what he didn't do. Just that the LT started turning away from him. The tone in his voice, the tenor of their relationship.
It's like someone shut a door that Brad didn't even know was open.
They're all on watch after the Al Muwaffaqiyah disaster. Everyone is jittery. Tense. The adrenaline rushes are coming down and in some way it's worse than right after their retreat. They're alive, but they're sitting ducks.
"This is the most fucked up, retard, duck fucking, excuse for a retreat I've ever had the misfortune to be a part of," Ray laments. "At least when we did this shit at school we got cookies and juice afterwards."
"At least if we were fucking ducks we'd be doing something," Reporter says helpfully.
"You fuck ducks?!" Ray and Trombley say in tandem. Their mutual disgust and glee at finding a weak point perfectly apparent.
Brad shakes his head. He opens the door and climbs out of the Humvee. "Where the fuck are you going?" Ray calls. "You can't run home to Mommy now, Brad."
"Actually, I was going home to fuck your mom," Brad tosses over his shoulder. "You want to come? Groups of three or more get a discount rate."
There's a moment of silence. "I'm going to remember this affront to my parentage later!" Ray hollers after him.
Brad cradles his M4 protectively, walking toward the back of the formation and honing in on the Command vehicle by instinct. The LT is talking to Gunny, but he glances up briefly when Brad approaches. Brad doesn't listen in on the conversation between them, just bides his time until Wynn looks over at him and nods before walking off.
The LT looks tired. There are circles under his eyes and dirt smeared all over his face. He left his Victor and nearly got killed. Brad is not okay with this. Brad cradles his weapon, careful to point the muzzle away from his commanding officer.
"Sir," Brad begins, not sure where this sentence is going.
The LT sighs. He's exhausted. It's etched into every line on his face, the youthfulness of his features muted by the life they've chosen. "Yes, Brad?"
"Sir, you can't do that."
The LT blinks. His eyes are just a white contrast to the smears on his face in the dark night. "Excuse me?" His words are polite, but his tone -- there's a wariness bordering on something prickly.
Brad looks down between them. The distance seems smaller than it really is. "Sir, you can't get out of your Humvee during a fucking ambush and run around like this is the end zone at a Dartmouth football game. You can't almost get yourself killed," he says firmly. "I can't allow that."
The LT narrows his eyes. "Allow that, Sergeant?"
Brad shakes his head. "No, Nate." Brad never quite understood all the power of a name until now.
There's a sharp inhale followed by a rough exhalation. "Brad." There's not a word to describe the emotion in Nate's voice and a long fissure appears somewhere deep in Brad's chest.
This is what Brad saw at Mathilda. That it would be so easy for him to fall for Nate Fick. That Nate was already on his way along that fucked up road of pot holes and IEDs and broken hearts and somebody was going to have to get them out of this mess.
That somebody was going to have to make the decision not to take them down this road. This road ends up like the ambush they were just in. Brad won't do that again. He's making that choice now.
"No, Nate," Brad repeats again, his voice rougher. More hoarse. There's a physical ache radiating from every part of his body.
And then he turns around and walks away.
Nate is full of shit. The team leader meeting for the push to Al Kut is just proof that Brad made the right choice, because Brad would never fall for some dickless, inbred choir boy who spouted moto bullshit about burning dogs. So it doesn't even matter that Brad's so disgusted he actually gives Nate lip. It really doesn't. Except if he really thinks Nate's so full of shit, why even bother to be angry with him in the first fucking place? God, he hates it when he sounds like his mom in his head.
They're in a POG camp on 25% watch, the battle is over, the war is won, the kids are asleep and Brad shouldn't be surprised when Nate shows up. He knows this. Except he is. He thought this was over. He thought they were over this. He thought he was over this.
And then Nate sidles up to Brad's half-open passenger door and clears his throat. Every nerve in Brad's body tenses and he looks up at the ceiling before turning his head. "LT."
"Sergeant."
There's a too-long pause with Nate standing at the door and Brad looking somewhere near his left ear. Brad has to make eye contact eventually; when he does it's like a punch in the throat. Nate's sucking on his lower lip, eyes intent, watching. Waiting. Brad can feel his own eyes widening. He swallows. He doesn't want to go through this again - but he's not sure he has much choice.
Nate inclines his head, and Brad automatically climbs out of the Humvee and follows him to the front of the Victor. Nate leans back against the grille and gives Brad a smile that makes Brad sway a little on his feet. Brad puts his hand down on the hood to steady himself and licks his lips.
Nate's eyes automatically go downward and Brad sighs softly to himself. "Sir."
"Yes?" Nate coaxes.
Brad snorts softly to himself. "I can't believe we're in a fucking POG camp."
Nate's laugh is low and warm and all Brad wants is to hear it again.
The resulting conversation about warriors and latrines has absolutely nothing to do with either one at all.
The cigarette factory is a gift from somebody. Brad doesn't believe in God, so he'll just have to thank Saddam's hopefully dead-and-dismembered-by-now sons. Eight floors. 32 offices per floor. It takes Brad thirty-seven minutes to find Nate, because far be it from Nate to be obvious and choose a fucking office. Instead, he's in what looks like a computer room on the fifth floor. No windows, one door only slightly ajar.
It's cooler inside here than any other place Brad's checked, and there's Nate, sprawled out against one wall, surrounded by binders and a few yellowing envelopes.
Brad looks at the crown of his head, the very tips of his ears and the shorn hair and the notebook paper held gently between his fingers.
"Reading letters from Suzie Rottencrotch back home?" he says a little harshly. The thought streaking through his mind has honestly never occurred to him before. Clearly it should have.
"Don’t call my sister names," Nate says mildly without lifting his head.
Brad exhales and steps inside. The door clicks closed behind him. "Sorry, sir."
Nate folds up the letter and sets it aside before looking up. "Did you check to make sure you didn't just lock us in here, Sergeant?"
Brad blinks. Nate gazes back. "You're fucking with me."
Nate's smile is enormous. "And for a second you bought it."
"Being misled by Command is my favorite hobby." Brad says drolly as he sets his weapon alongside Nate's before taking the steps necessary to enter Nate's space. He pauses long enough to straddle Nate's legs and then sit down on his thighs, trapping Nate against the wall.
There's a long moment where Brad just looks at Nate, studies the wide, lush mouth and the dark circles. Tries to figure out how he found a way into Brad's heart where everybody else just fucking failed.
The whites of Nate's eyes are bright. "You're heavy," he says conversationally as he tugs Brad closer, his fingers splaying over Brad's back.
"Is that a fat joke?" Brad says, accepting a very soft brush of Nate's mouth against his own. "I think I'm offended."
"Just observing the terrain," Nate says, kissing Brad slowly, his tongue sliding between Brad's lips effortlessly. Brad sucks on it, uses his teeth. When he pulls away, Nate's mouth is slick, wet. "Just thinking about all the ways I'm going to defile you when we get stateside."
Brad makes a 'hmm'ing noise. "I'd be interested in hearing about that," he says while conducting his detailed study of Nate's features. He runs the tips of his fingers over Nate's forehead, jaw, the bridge of his noise, nuzzles Nate's temple, feeling it when Nate's fingers dig into his hips.
"I know you would," Nate says, nipping at Brad's bottom lip. "You want all the details of me spreading you out on my bed, kissing you here, and here, and here and here." Nate punctuates each 'here' with a stroke of his fingers over a particular body part. The small of Brad's back. The inside of his elbow. The side of his neck.
"I know you want me to tell you about how I'm going to lick you open, fuck you with my fingers so slowly that you're in agony. How I'm going to fuck your perfect hole until it's swollen and puffy and then I'm going to lick you open again and you're going to come for me again and again without even touching yourself."
Brad shifts on Nate's lap, leisurely rubbing his cock against Nate's stomach through four layers of clothes. "Sounds like a good plan, sir." A beat. "Somewhere down the line."
Nate pulls back, banging his head on the wall. Brad shakes his head, cups Nate's skull with his fingers to keep future injuries at bay. "Somewhere down the line?" Nate repeats incredulously.
"You haven't even bought me a drink yet. I'm not that cheap, sir."
Nate laughs low. "No, you're definitely not cheap, Brad. But you're worth the effort."
"You think so?" Brad's voice is so thin that he barely hears himself speak.
"Yes," Nate says bluntly.
Brad's eyes are drawn down by Nate's fingers on his chin. "Yes," Nate repeats again. "You're worth it."
Brad shivers. When Nate says it… he almost thinks it's true. Maybe it is.
"But we're not fucking in here," Nate says, ghosting his thumb over Brad's right cheekbone. "Don't get your hopes up."
Brad sighs dramatically. "Well, at least this time I have advance notice of being screwed by Command."
"Brad, when I fuck you, you're going to beg for it."
"Is that a fact, sir?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?" Brad persists. "I wouldn’t want your personal feelings to get in the way of your performance."
Nate grins. "I think it's too late for that, don't you?"
Brad nods. "I am assured of this."
-end-
Author's Note: It occurred to me that an overwhelming amount of my stories were about Brad pursuing Nate. I wanted to see it on the other foot for a change. It almost made me get in an accident this morning thinking about it.
Yet, another present for L. Ilu romanticalgirl. It's terrible this birthday thing, isn't it?
Beta by the always fabulous alethialia